 | Reliquiae Wottonianae |  |
69
Tears wept at the grave of Sir Albertus Morton, by Henry Wotton.
Silence in truth, would speak my sorrow best,
For deepest wounds, can least their feelings tel;
Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest,
A time to bid him whom I lov'd farewel.
For deepest wounds, can least their feelings tel;
Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest,
A time to bid him whom I lov'd farewel.
Oh my unhappy lines, you that before
Have serv'd my youth to vent some wanton cries,
And now congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore
Strength to accent, Here my Albertus lies.
Have serv'd my youth to vent some wanton cries,
70
Strength to accent, Here my Albertus lies.
This is that Sable stone, this is the cave
And womb of earth, that doth his Corps imbrace
While others sing his praise, let me ingrave
These bleeding numbers to adorn the place.
And womb of earth, that doth his Corps imbrace
While others sing his praise, let me ingrave
These bleeding numbers to adorn the place.
Here will I paint the Characters of woe:
Here I will pay my tribute to the dead;
And here, my faithful tears in showrs shall flow
To humanize the flints on which I tread.
Here I will pay my tribute to the dead;
And here, my faithful tears in showrs shall flow
To humanize the flints on which I tread.
Where, though I mourn my matchless loss alone
And none between my weakness judg and me,
Yet, even these pensive walls allow my moan
Whose doleful Echoes to my plaints agree.
And none between my weakness judg and me,
Yet, even these pensive walls allow my moan
Whose doleful Echoes to my plaints agree.
But is he gone? and live I riming here,
As if some Muse would listen to my lay?
When all dis-tun'd sit waiting for their dear,
And bath the Banks where he was wont to play.
As if some Muse would listen to my lay?
When all dis-tun'd sit waiting for their dear,
And bath the Banks where he was wont to play.
Dwell then in endless light, thou freed soul,
Discharg'd from natures, and from fortunes crust,
Whil'st on this fluid globe my glass shall roul,
And run the rest of my remaining dust.
Discharg'd from natures, and from fortunes crust,
Whil'st on this fluid globe my glass shall roul,
And run the rest of my remaining dust.
H. Wotton
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